Azkaban
by DameRebeccaOfTheTardis
Summary: He has gotten his sentence. Not kind, like death. He has been sentenced to a lifetime in Azkaban. A lifetime with only his thoughts, his memories to keep him company. Condemned. Condemned by his own father. One-shot. First fic, so be gentle, please.


**Okay. So this is the result of my (Rebecca) David Tennant obsession. I was watching GoF last night and the courtroom scene, where Barty jr. is exposed as a Death Eater and Mr. Crouch goes "you're not my son" just wouldn't get out of my head. So I sat down and wrote this instead of doing my Math homework. Anyway, enjoy, and, um, review, please? Reviews make me happy.**

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**Azkaban**

He has gotten his sentence. A horrible sentence. Not something kind, something merciful. Like death, for example.

No.

He has been sentenced to a lifetime in Azkaban Prison; a lifetime with no other company than his thoughts, his most horrible memories, the knowledge that he failed his Lord and Master, the knowledge that he hadn't managed to bring Him back.

A lifetime in a cold cell with only one, single, tiny, barred window. There's no bed, no chairs, no cushions, no comfort of any kind in the little room that is to be his home.

He is only nineteen years old, when he receives the Sentence. He is already well on his way towards all-consuming madness, but when he hears those dreaded words, "… the court therefore sentences you to a lifetime in Azkaban…", his mind clears, if only for a moment, as he is suddenly seized by the clammy hands of fear.

Those present in the courtroom can see how the crazy, glazed-over look of obsessive devotion clears from his brown eyes and, for only a fraction of a second, he looks just like a terrified nineteen-year-old _boy_, not a murderer, not a Death Eater, but a mere boy. A boy, who can scarce believe that he has just been condemned to a life behind bars, condemned by his own father.

Then the Aurors grab his arms and starts pulling him towards the door, towards the Dementors. His pulse is racing, skyrocketing, and he is, for a moment, paralyzed by fear, until suddenly, as soon as he gets within reach of the Dementors and their terrible power, the fear is transformed into madness and he starts struggling violently. His pale skin is shiny with a thin layer of sweat, his brown eyes are bulging in his head, the crazy look has returned, his mouth opens and he lets out a sound that appears to be a cross between a terrified scream and an angry shout.

"Father!" he screams, while fighting the Aurors, "father! Father, please! It wasn't me! It wasn't me! I didn't do it! I'm innocent! You know, I am! Father! Father!"

But his father ignores him, turns his back on him, says stonily: "you are no son of mine. I have no son."

A new pain grips the boy, a pain that has nothing to do with his Lord's defeat or his own failure to restore the Dark Lord to power; a pain that reaches him even through the cloud of fear and madness and desperation and thoughts of _oh, Merlin, why?_

If he had been aware of anything, besides the pain and the fogginess over his senses, he would have been able to identify his father's words as the source of this new pain. If he had been aware, he would have scoffed and told himself the man wasn't worth it. However as it is, he is not aware of anything and, as such, the pain only serves to fuel his panic and thereby his anger.

The anger makes him struggle ever more violently and he has almost broken free from the Aurors, when one of them, a tall black man, pulls out his wand and knocks him out with a non-verbal Stunner.

When he wakes again, it is to the feeling of an icy, wet stone floor pressed to his cheek and the sound of screaming, crying, muttering and a strange piercing howling.

His entire body is cold. So cold, in fact, that he can barely move. It takes him several minutes just to lift his head and take a look around him.

Shakily he realizes that the strange howling is the sound of the wind, blasting through the tiny window and the cracks between the stones in the uneven wall. It is freezing.

He feels nothing but despair. Deep, dark despair, which seems to be covering his mindscape like a heavy, black blanket. The worst thing he has ever experienced is parading in front of his eyes, moving in black and white, like the pictures in the Daily Prophet.

_His mother, smiling sadly and patting his hair, whispering "mummy might not live much longer, Barty. Take care of your father, if I die, okay?" She was so frail, like a little bird. He felt so much pain._

_His father's eyes shining coldly, angrily, "six OWL's are not the same as seven, Bartemius. It is, quite simply, not good enough!" A powerful blow to his cheek, the first of many._

_James Potter and Sirius Black's maliciously grinning faces, wands drawn, jeering, "look, the little Slytherin can dance!" Such humiliation._

_His father's eyes, stonecold and disappointed and hateful, "you are no son of mine."_

_A woman's voice, loud, urgent, afraid, screaming, "the Dark Lord has fallen! They're coming!"_

He is having a hard time breathing. He's gasping, sobbing, sucking huge breaths of air deep into his lungs. They're burning.

There's someone in the cell next to his, a man, who is muttering to himself over and over, loudly, though indistinctly; the boy can hear it and he wishes the man would shut up.

He never realises that there is no man, that the cell is empty and that the muttering is his own.

The fight leaves him after a few weeks. At first he was convinced that he would be out of here in a matter of days. Mother would convince his father to help him escape. He was certain of it.

But after weeks and weeks of screaming and memories and prison food, he realises that it isn't going to happen. He starts to lose the sense of what is real and what is not. He only knows, beyond a shadow of doubt, that his Master, the Dark Lord, will rise again. He wishes he could see it, but he is beginning to realise that Azkaban will, undoubtedly, have killed him before it can be done.

The fight leaves him.

Most of the time he sits quite still, barely breathing, curled up in the corner furthest from the door; a vain attempt at escaping the Dementors. It's futile, of course. There is no escape.

Some days his eyes will glaze over, he'll rock backwards and forwards, and he'll be muttering to himself, nonsense which even he doesn't understand.

Other days he'll clutch his head tightly, shut his eyes and he'll scream, scream until his throat is raw, and then scream some more, and he'll be convinced of his imminent death.

But those days are rare.

On the day his parents, his salvation, finally arrives, he's been imprisoned for a year and four months. He is muttering to himself, rocking slightly from side to side. His brown hair is unkempt, wild, greasy and flying all over the place, his clothes are ragged and torn, and he looks every bit like the madman he is.

His father, prim and proper as always, almost turns around and leaves, unable to accept the reality that this raving lunatic is really his son, but the pleading gaze of his ill wife makes him stay.

The boy is smuggled from the prison, disguised as his mother, who stays to take his place, and kept quiet under the Imperius Curse.

For years the boy is kept hidden, obedient only thanks to the Imperius Curse. Until his Master, the Dark Lord, does show up, just as the boy, by then a man, had predicted.

Then it is the boy's turn to keep his father quiet by the use of the Imperius Curse. He sends the Potter boy to the graveyard; he helps his Lord back to life.

Sadly he never will get to see the Dark Lord restored to his former power, for, by the time the Dark Lord will come to collect him, he will be nothing but an empty shell, having met a fate worse than death.


End file.
